Elevator Love Letter
by MisoKat
Summary: Craig is a salary man in Denver, looking to make it in the big city, but when he finds his obsession again after six years of leading different, seperate lives, how will he react? A story about an older South Park; no high school drama here.  Creek
1. Chapter 1

About two years ago I moved to Denver, trying to escape the hum drum small town life of South Park. I planned on running away from that upside down town years before that, but having a dad with a drinking problem and a mom with no credible job makes it hard to get in to any college other than South Park Community. I spent my years there studying business, learning everything I could about managing people and using my indifference to other's opinions to my advantage; I knew I would make one hell of a boss—commanding my peons and not giving a shit if they called me a dick behind my back. I knew I was a dick. I embraced it.

I used my "I'm a dick" philosophy to get me through college. Whenever anyone asked, "Hey, we're going to this boss-ass party, you down?" I would give them a menacing glare, tell them to fuck off, and continue pouring over my books. This gave me quite a reputation, but I didn't give a shit—I was, and still am, a dick.

College life was boring, I went to class, studied, ate, had a few boring relationships, and eventually graduated with honors; college life was easy. No real relationships, one night stands mostly; girls can't put up with assholes too long. Also, I was never necessarily "in to" any of the women I slept with. It was just something to do to pass the time.

Friends came and went, no one sticking by me, no bros to hang out with at the end of the day, just myself and my school work. My best friend from high school was off in some art school in Denver and even though I cheered him on, I missed him every minute of every day. He was the only one I could tolerate and who tolerated me in return. Not really a lot to build a friendship off of, but when no one else can stand being around you too long, the mutual feeling is comforting. I missed his refreshing, shy smile. I missed his paranoid tendencies and delusions. I missed the smell of coffee.

Thinking of him and his absence every day made me a little insane. On my graduation day, I nodded to my sleeping father and disinterested mother in the audience, hopped in my car, and drove straight to Denver. Not like I need a U-Haul for clothes and my guinea pig Spot.

My first day in Denver I invested most of my savings on an apartment in a small building on a busy street, my landlord allowing me to pay her in advance for the first three months until I found a job. I unpacked all my things and went scavenging thrift stores for furniture. None of it matched, but it only cost twenty bucks for a dresser and bed frame, so I'm not complaining.

The next day I applied to every company I could find, from big banks to small fast-food chains; I wanted a job and I'd suck someone's dick to get it. I needed to stay in Denver and minimum wage slave labor was not going to cut it. By the time I had gotten back to the apartment my only suit was covered in sweat and city grime, but my hard work paid off. I had five interviews and three job offers in the next month, each one better than the next. Seemed like companies were looking for fresh, newly educated faces to add a spark to their production and I had that face. I took the highest salary at Western Union, which was a Human Resources position handling their customer service representatives. Perfect.

The job was easy, handling people is easy. Everyone needs to be told what to do and when to do it and I'm the guy that does it. But, easy gets boring after a while and the fast-paced city life slows to a meager crawl. That "fresh face" garbage and nice pay lured me in and now I'm stuck. I spend most of my days bouncing a small red ball off of the wall next to my desk, trying to keep my mind active. There's a small grey area in the white paint where the ball has hit so many times it's revealed the dry wall. People rarely come in my office and the only meetings I've been to have been about how we don't have the money to keep all of our staff, so we decide what temps we want to fire.

Welcome to my middle aged mediocrity. Where failure is noticed more than success and success is rewarded with more work and more responsibilities for the same pay. It makes me wonder why I wanted to leave my small town to begin with. I feel like an old man and I'm only 26.

"Craig." My boss taps at my door and I don't even pretend to look interested. My chair, still reclined, faces the wall with the growing grey spot. My boss eyes the spot idly, "We really need to paint over that." Then turns to me, "Do you have the customer service surveys compiled? I need the percentages by 2 p.m..."

I look at my clock, its 10 a.m. You see, we have these surveys customers complete after a phone call with our representatives. After a week the ratings of the surveys go to HR, which then get funneled down to me for me to compile together and evaluate. What do customers think are good? Bad? What can we improve to make the customer's experience more enjoyable? Who has the lowest score? Highest? What factors contributed to those scores? It's like an open book quiz, but they give me a week to complete it and for those seven days that's my only task. I completed the recap six days ago.

I lazily reach in to my desk drawer, it's empty except for a thick binder with "Customer Service Surveys—10/02-10/08". Each week gets its own binder. The binder is heavy and when I hand it to him, the poor guy struggles under its weight. He grunts thanks at me, and continues in the direction he was going.

I pick up my small red ball and restart my wall demolition. Now, I wait for next week to begin. This has been my life for two years, the same thing almost every day, sans a call from my mom asking me how my life has been going and calls from my boss telling me I'm down right OK. I don't do anything impressive, and I'm sure as hell not trying anything new to get me fired. One day they'll realize I'm useless, but hopefully when that day comes I'll have gained enough seniority in the company they'll just transfer me instead.

It wasn't until a month later that my life became interesting. My boss came to me and told me that I'll be attending five meetings every week, each meeting would be five hours long and I would take the minutes. I agreed and took the binder entitled, "Meeting Minutes—HR" out of his shaking hand. What had I done well to deserve this? I sighed and threw my new responsibility in to my desk's second drawer.

My first meeting was a mild success. Although I have only studied how to take minutes, I was able to follow everyone's opinions and keep track of decisions. This was only because they repeated themselves so many times it was unbearable. After a while, all of the discussions and decisions looped around one another and the whole page seemed like I'd copied the first part over and over.

"So, what do you think Craig?" I shot my head up from my page, my doodle of Spot left unfinished.

"What do I think about…?" I hadn't been paying attention.

The man sighed impatiently, "What do you think about changing up our menu? Changing the number choices and make it easier to navigate?" He had a glimmer in his eye, like this was a new idea. By menu, he meant in the phone tree when customers call in about their bank account with Western Union. I regurgitated the same rebuttal someone earlier had used on a similar topic to change what the options say.

"I believe that to be a horrible idea, our regular customer base would be more confused and angry and we don't want to lose valuable customers because of such a simple thing." The man nodded, seemingly satisfied with my answer.

"OK, so, how do we make it more interesting for our long-time customers?" And so the meeting ensued and I wrote down the new topic; only four more hours to go and I can go home to my guinea pig.

After the meeting I was drained. I had to do this four more times this week? I'd have to bring a pillow. I gave myself an early day, but no one noticed the paper pusher with his own scarcely-decorated office.

Out on the street I felt like I could breathe again. I took a deep breath of city air and took a glance around me; it was only 4 p.m., most businesses don't release people until 6 p.m. around here, so the street was bare. I took this luxury and made my gait nice and slow, not bothering to keep up with the quick feet of Denver. I usually just stare at my feet and ignore anyone passing by, but today I was able to look around. It was a typical city block—way too many businesses and badly parallel parked cars to be classy like 5th Avenue or anything like that. But, there was one thing that was odd; bright pink, green and blue papers were plastered over every surface. Surely I would have noticed such assaults to my senses.

I plucked one of them off of a nearby light pole. "The Art Institutes Presents: Coffee and Cardigans – An exhibition from one of our top graduates! Come meet the artist and view his unique works! Gallery opens from 12 p.m. – 2 a.m. Monday through Saturday. Auction will be held at 10 p.m. on Saturday"

Coffee and Cardigans? Fucking hipsters, even their titles are self-entitled. But, seeing coffee on the flyer… It reminded me of my best friend. Still, even now, I think about him whenever the coffee maker comes on in the office. Sometimes I find myself lingering in the break room too long, basking in the scent. I dream of his slender fingers sliding gracefully over full cups of coffee. His full lips gently blowing the steam away from the top, his eyes watching me, wary of my staring; they were filled with such curiosity and they dragged me in.

That same curiosity pulled me now. There was a note saying the artist would be there every night of the gallery. My heart clenched in my chest, if he's the artist, if I could see him again, just for a second, maybe I'll stop being so insane. I want to talk to him again, listen to his voice stutter through his short sentences. Feel those eyes on me, one more time.

I looked at the address, I knew where that gallery was; it was one block down from my apartment's street. I passed it once in a while when foot traffic was heavy and I needed a less crowded route home. It was a small building with a rent an art school could afford I'm sure.

Walking a bit too fast I made my way to the gallery. This was the most excitement I've experienced in a while. I could feel the spring in my step I was that giddy, I needed to calm down. I ducked in to the nearest Starbucks and ordered myself a Grande coffee, black, the strongest stuff they had. I tucked it under my arm and enjoyed the smell of it the rest of my journey. This was his favorite, so it was mine too.

The door to the gallery was wooden with old brass handles. My hands were suddenly too heavy. I couldn't do it. My nerves froze me in place. How long has it been since I've seen him? Holy shit, it's been six years. Would he remember me? Would I remember him? I'm sure he's not blonde anymore, going to art school and shit… Probably blue like the rest of the artsy types. And I'm not as short and scrawny as I used to be. I was a good 6"4' now and my work as a gym, I'm pretty impressive. I don't even have a blue chullo anymore, how is he going to know it was me? Maybe I could scowl? No, then he'll be too afraid to approach me. Maybe I should look welcoming? No... He'd still be too afraid.

Oh Jesus, Craig Tucker, get a fucking hold of yourself. It's just an art gallery. It's probably not him, probably just some artsy hipster with a coffee problem. Did he ever wear a cardigan? Dammit I don't remember. I can only think about those fingers…

Getting frustrated with myself, I took both hands; coffee tucked safely under my arm, and pushed the door open. Inside the gallery was white, bright white, but you could barely tell with all the bodies. It was suddenly way too warm for a winter coat and a hot coffee. I quickly checked my coat in and bought a ticket.

"Hey," I asked the girl in the front, who was staring intently at her computer and playing with a number two pencil. I doubted she's looked at a customer all night. "Is the artist here yet?" She shrugged, lazily moving her eyes to me. Here it comes.

The girl stiffens and sits straight up, her pencil rolling off of her desk. Her face is flushed and her eyes grow three times their size. I know I look damned good in a suit, but she's kind of over reacting, like every other girl. I watch her adjust her top to show more superfluous cleavage. She clears her throat.

"Ummm," She's still wide eyed; not nearly as cute at my wide-eyed addict. "No, but, um, I'm sure he'll be back by 8. He mumbled something about being under a lot of pressure and left about an hour ago." Alright Ms. More-information-than-I-needed…

I thanked her and walked in to the gallery, being 100% more nervous. She just confirmed he was the artist. My little obsession was the one who created the dozens of pieces around me. I take my time and look at each one. The colors and media range, but none of them are of concrete objects. All of them look like thoughts, feelings, fleeting emotions… There's some about rage, depression, loneliness. They make me stare, mouth agape, amazed that his art gives off anything other than, "Oh, hey, look at that paint on that paper. Awesome."

I'm absorbed in one entitled "BC", assuming it meant Before Christ, only the colors in it were blue and yellow, with a bit of black on the bottom. The splatters were carefully placed, dripped, in a circular pattern. Blue mainly, but yellow sprouted on the top of the blue circle, almost like a little poof ball. I don't understand how on earth this could be religious, so I move on.

Every piece was beautiful. I had no idea he was so talented, I just wanted to stare at the paintings all day. It's hard to keep time inside the gallery, so by the time I looked at my watch it was 7:56 p.m. My stomach was doing small little flips; I could feel my nervousness bubble up to my throat—oh God, I'm going to hurl. I whipped around from the current painting entitled, "Espresso" and looked for the nearest restroom.

In my frantic searching, I found a glimpse of bright blonde hair. My breath caught—bathroom forgotten. The crowd swarmed around him, I could hear their praise from where I was standing. I didn't dare move one inch closer, my feet were glued to that tile floor.

The crowd broke, and I realized the man singing him with praises gestured to the painting behind me. I watched the old man's hand wave over and swing in the direction of the canvas. The crowd broke apart so the small tuft could see what the rich old bastard was waving his arms at.

His eyes weren't bugged out; they were in a calm, half-lidded state. The bags under his eyes were light, not as deep as they used to be. His skin was still the flawless pale I remember it, and he was just as thin. His slender forearms poked out from under a long-sleeved brown cardigan pushed up to his shoulders. His shirt under was a cream color with a deep V and a picture of an old coffee ad poked up from the V his cardigan made. His pants were a dark blue with a light acid wash and he had on some trendy form of sneakers. I took this all in in a second, because as soon as our eyes met, it all went to hell.

I watched his eyes bug out, he grabbed his cardigan at the buttons and tugged; I watched as the fabric stretched under his beautiful fingers. His mouth opened, teeth clenched, as he squeaked out a nervous sound. His feet went pigeon toed and I saw him shake violently once, twice…

I did the only thing I could think of—I put my coffee down, put my hands in my pockets, and walked away. I heard him squeak behind me, but I didn't turn around. I'm not ready to talk to him yet. Seeing him was plenty.

I left as quickly as I came. I grabbed my coat and walked home to my guinea pig. The walk was quiet and I was able to recollect my thoughts. I remembered everything, from the curve of his neck to his posture; I had it burned in to my subconscious. That would hold me for a while. Nothing like one good hit.

About two years ago I moved to Denver in a futile attempt to escape the hum drum small town life of South Park, and it seems like it's trying to draw me back in.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk home is long, but I take the time to clear my head. I almost lost it back there; almost. I've never been so moved in my life, I've never been so nervous. He changes me, mixes me up, I've missed this feeling of being confused. I've missed the longing I have for him. I forget how I got back home.

I'm just sitting in my apartment, staring at my TV, lost in silent thought. Spot runs around on my lap like an idiot; she looks nothing like her dad Stripe, but I love her anyway. She's softer and cuddles with me more than that moody bastard did.

I've already told her all about seeing the lovely boy and she's as excited as I am; my lap isn't big enough for her to exert her happy energy.

I'm still imagining him, like I always have; only now I have a more recent, updated mental image. I do prefer this one to the high school one I was daydreaming about; his former self made me feel like a pedophile.

I hope he's been eating well. He looked so slender. I bet he's that skinny everywhere. My eyes wander down the make believe body I think he has. He's blushing, his eyes relaxed and his smile coy. He tugs at his well-maintained blonde locks as I tease his body, grabbing his slender waist and pulling him towards me. My hands run up and down his waist and he shivers under my touch. He looks at me with pleading eyes…

Spot runs over my boner and kills the mood instantly. Her little paws dig in to my groin and I see red. I pick her up and put her back in her cage—no grapes for that boner-killer tonight. I eat without tasting the food, nothing tastes as good as he smells.

I can't sleep; his beautiful eyes keep coming in to my vision—deep and blue. I want to stare in to them forever. Of course, when I try to, my eyes pop open and I lose yet another hour of sleep thinking about him. This can't be healthy. I really should have talked to him last night. Maybe if I did he'd be in my bed, looking at me with a satisfied expression. He'd next to me, tired and sweaty, our naked limbs intertwined in such a way that if I moved my leg even slightly he'd moan, ready for me to fuck him in to the mattress.

Oh, there's my friend again. Always showing up at inconvenient moments… The clock says its 4:30 a.m.; I have to get up in a half an hour anyway, might as well enjoy my final moments in bed.

My mind wonders to the possibilities of last night:

He grabs his cardigan and pulls, the fabric stretching under his delicate fingers. On further inspection, I notice the subtle calluses dotting his hand. I walk slowly up to him. He tenses with each of my steps. I have the sudden urge to touch him, reassure him, but I don't. Keep your cool, Tucker.

I put my hands in my pocket.

"Hey, long time no see." I'm so suave. Keep it going.

He shudders and shakes, not able to get a word out. I lean down and whisper how beautiful he is in his ear and feel him melt beneath me. I take his vulnerability to snake an arm around him and pull him close to me. He leans in to my embrace and allows me to slip off his thin cardigan. I trace his protruding collar bone with my fingers, imagining how smooth the skin is. I dip my hand around his neck and take a handful of his silky hair in my hands.

My alarm clock goes off, making obnoxious beeping noises at me. I should have turned that off before I wrapped my hand around my dick. I begrudgingly stop my current task and turn off the alarm. I can't finish, I have to get ready for yet another endless day.

I take a deliberately long shower, finding release under the hot water. The humidity clings to my skin and cools when I step out of the bathroom; a refreshing feeling.

I decide on one of my better suits; it's black with a sharp lapel. It's usually the one I wear when big-wigs come around, but seeing a certain blonde has made me a little cocky. Leaving my apartment I say a goodbye to Spot and make my way down the seven flights of stairs.

The rent on my building is cheap—only $500 a month for rent and utilities. It's only so cheap because there's no elevator in this old ass building. The landlord is an elderly lady who is too kind for her own good. People bang at her door every hour of the day complaining about the lack of an elevator. I personally don't mind it, I'll take exercise wherever I can get it.

I see my landlord sitting outside of her apartment, airing out a carpet on her make-shift laundry line. She lives on the bottom floor, so all she has to do is open the back exit and she can save some money on electricity for drying clothes. She smiles at me as I pass and hand her my monthly check—with a little extra in case I ever fall behind or lose my job.

The street is busy today; jam packed with people hurrying to their jobs. I check my watch; it's 5:30 a.m. It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk to work—I can make a detour.

I decide to familiarize myself more with the neighboring streets, considering I've usually been too focused on work to care about any other sight than my building, I didn't really explore when I first moved. Now that I've seen my lovely boy again I feel like venturing beyond my comfort zone.

The streets are lined with small convenience stores, boutiques and the occasional café. It's quaint and I can't complain, I'd rather see some bustling small businesses than big conglomerates feeding the masses filth for only a dollar. That's the kind of shit I wanted to change when I moved here, not how banks treat their customers…

A sign catches my eye and I feel oddly drawn to the reddish orange color. Suddenly I can smell South Park, the reek of mountain-free coffee hitting my nostrils like a freight train. I know that coffee smell. I move faster, trying not to look like a crazy man.

Harbucks, the family business here, in Denver, only two blocks down from my building? What the hell. Inside a long line of customers is formed at the desk. Two unrecognizable men are working the front counter, moving frantically back and forth from one machine to another. They seem like capable baristas and dispense coffees like true pros… How long has this building been here?

I search fruitless for the object of my affection, but he's nowhere to be found inside. I doubt an artsy type with a gallery open till 2 a.m. would be up right now, but I tried anyway. The fact that something like Harbucks is flourishing here is simply put, crazy. Maybe I'll stop in one day and listen to a metaphor or two.

I'm a little late to work, but that's OK, no one even acknowledged me when I walked in. Today was day two of five-hour-meetings and I'm sure I didn't look pleased walking past reception. I trudge to my desk and pull out the Meeting Minutes binder, looking over yesterday's minutes. When I go over it enough times that I believe it's perfect, I file it in the computer as a Word document and throw the original away. It takes longer than expected because I got bored halfway through and Googled my obsession, which successfully distracted me long enough to not care about filing anymore. There's so many picture of him online… Does he have a fan club?

Before I could look in to that, my boss tapped on my door twice and let himself in. "Meeting time, Tucker—let's pay attention today shall we?" Sometimes he can be so annoying…

Today's meeting was a rehash of yesterday with a little bit of ageism threw in. Sometimes an elder member of our round table would make a crack on how a 'young guy like Craig' couldn't possibly be able to understand the values of Western Union and their customer satisfaction. I just wanted to say back, 'A young man like Craig could knock out an old mother fucker like you faster than you can say customer satisfaction'… But, professionalism won out over violent tendencies and the meeting hit the halfway mark without punches being thrown.

I leaned back in my chair for the first time for two hours, my back cracked in protest and I let my legs stretch out as far as they could go, my polished shoes pointing up. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of pulling my body back to a resting position. I smile danced across my lips and I thought about last night again and again, I wanted to see him so bad it made my chest ache.

I heard a small sound, almost like a strangled gasp coming from the doorway, and I opened my eyes. Standing at the entrance of the meeting room was a slender, pale, blonde holding two large trays of coffee. My eyes are as wide as his. Oh, fate.

"Ah, perfect!" My boss quickly stands up and fumbles for his wallet, "I ordered Harbucks for everyone again, and it's everyone's favorite, right?" The rest of the men in the room grunted in approval and greedily took the brown cups from my surprised beauty. He reminds me of the girl at the gallery, all doe-eyed and shocked; only, I didn't want to fuck the gallery chick.

I stood from my chair; I was going to play this cool, just like Craig Tucker would. I reached for the last cup and plucked it from its holder. A slight smile danced across my lips.

"Thanks." I said, in my deep, smooth voice. I heard him whimper and immediately after he dropped both empty holders on the ground and bolted out of the room. Chuckling, I sipped my coffee and enjoyed the taste of the concoctions prepared by Mr. Repetitive. This was called Blue Mountain Rose if I'm not mistaken; not my favorite, but no coffee could sate my thirst for that frail boy right now.

The rest of the meeting is way too boring to explain, and not nearly as interesting as the sudden appearance of my crush. I long to say his name out loud; I want to repeat it over and over until my voice is hoarse with want. But, if he can't hear my need, then there's no use saying it. His name is like honey that slowly spreads over my lips and encloses my mouth with sticky sweet residue. But, if he's not near me, I never want to utter it.

And I can't say it yet. I can't go up to him and talk to him. I can't say that name that slips through my lips so naturally. I used to call to him all the time. I loved to say his name. He would jump whenever I did, eyes instantly on mine, and I would live in that moment, when he was mine. All of his attention, mine.

I could get off to that reaction.

I'm still a little strung out on the coffee and the chance meeting after work to go home. I need to go out, be somewhere, with people. I consider the gallery again, but I might just rip off the boy's clothes if I see him again. I decide on a place where the chance of running in to him is still existent, but a bit smaller.

Harbucks is empty when I walk in. It seems no one wants coffee when the work day is done and sleep is a comfort. I walk up to the deserted counter and ask the young man for a small, Mountaineer with a bit of Blue Rose and a splash of Campfire on top with five creamers, seven sugars and two shots of espresso. The guy behind the counter gives me an exasperated look and begins my customized concoction. It takes him three tries to get him right, but when I take that sip and I go back seven years to when I was in high school messing with coffee combinations until two in the morning, I give him a twenty dollar tip.

I have a work-issued iPad in my laptop bag and decide to kill some serious time in this coffee shop. The interior is the same as the one back in the small mountain town and I feel like I'm sixteen again, staring at my twitchy boy as he worked to serve the people of South Park.

I idly do some busy work on my tablet, catching up on the emails that were neglected today because of my distraction, sipping my coffee and picking at the bagel the guy behind the counter gave me as a thank you for the 'hella awesome tip'. It takes me a while to notice someone is staring at me as I flick through routine messages.

He just came out of the back room, his hair disheveled and his shirt covered in stains from what looks like coal. I can only assume he was working on yet another original masterpiece and I wonder what it's about. He seems calmer, in control on his emotions, much more composed than the gallery and at my work.

It's a staring contest. I can't stop looking and neither can he. I'm blown away by how stunning he looks with the light of the dim shop reflecting off of his gaunt features. His hair looks like frosted clouds, and his eyes are endless. I watch his fingers trace down the short row of buttons on the V of his cotton shirt. He feels up the buttons until the collar of his shirt and then deviates to his collar bone, feeling the shape of the protruding bone. I want to lick where his fingers touch.

I decide to look away, feeling the need to keep up this distant, cool façade. I can feel the sweat beading at my collar, my crisp suit suddenly too heavy for such a small shop. I want to beckon him to come over, sit on my lap, let him feel me press in to his ass and breathe in to his neck.

By the time I stop playing cool, finish my emails and look up he's gone. I shove my expensive electronic in my bag and pull out a pad of paper. I rip a sheet off and write my number down folding it carefully. I can't bear to write his name, so I write, "From Craig" on the front.

My walk home was warm, the coffee seeping in to my veins, reminding me of him with every step. If he was next to me, I'd reach out and take his trembling hand. I'd kiss it and leave trails down his marred fingers. His hand would shake and I'd put it against my face to still it. He would be surprised, and I'd use it to my advantage and take his lips with mine. I'd whisper his name again and again, letting the velvety sound meld our lips together.

All of these fantasies are starting to drive me off the deep end again. I need to touch him, talk to him, do something other than stare and act like a cool guy.

The next day, I wake up with a resolve; I'll talk to that bastard today, and I'll probably end up kissing him. If he cries, I don't care. I'm going to take him home with me. And besides, what do I care? I'm a dick.


End file.
